


blue roses (broken heart syndrome)

by thedisasternerd



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Backstory, Blue - Freeform, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Relationships, Everyone Has Issues, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, Logophilia, M/M, Memories, Porn with Feelings, Sad and Beautiful, Sorry Not Sorry, Suicide Attempt, Synesthesia, Time Travel, Time Travel Shenanigans, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Underage Drinking, Water, Words, blue roses, human and AI, i love words, jarvis is a fucking saint, sentimentality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-01-11 17:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18429134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedisasternerd/pseuds/thedisasternerd
Summary: But stars aren't yellow.They are blue, when you see them in the sky.Blue like the sky. Blue like the ocean. Blue like blue roses. Blue like the eyes in Aunt Peggy's stories. Blue like all things deep and mysterious and unattainable.Blue like the river beneath him. Blue like the ice. Blue like the screech of cars behind him as he vaults over the railings.It's always been blue.Because he's drowning in it.Tony Stark has always heard colours in everyone and everything. Vibrant at first, sound twisting into colour and form, but as life dragged on, they became mere wisps, shadows that are no longer light, but a grotesque, macabre parody that terrifies him.Then someone slams into his life, someone so blue that it's all Tony can see, all he can feel, all he can think. He hates the colour, but at the same time he's always been drawn to it, like a moth to a flame that'll surely kill it. Drawn to what he can never have.OR: the story of Tony Stark's life, with tears, colours, memories, love and multiple persons getting thrown back (and forward) in time.





	1. lost in the light

**Author's Note:**

> N.B.  
> This fic is pretty canon-compliant, except i fiddled around with some dates, specifically tony's year of birth, which went from the mcu canon of 1970 to about 1975-ish, so he's about 33 when he becomes iron man and 37 when he meets steve, who's in his late twenties - about 28/9.  
> i also gave tony chromesthesia, which is the focus of this fic.  
> jarvis is totally a kingsman, and he needs a lot of love, so he's getting it. the sherlock holmes film mentioned is the granada TV one with jeremy brett.  
> FYI, Tiberius Stone is an earth 616 comic book character. He has known Tony and been his rival since they were kids. Gregory Stark is an earth 1610 character, tony's older, smarter and completely amoral twin.  
> i took liberties with canon, since this is a backstory, and if you wouldn't mind, please keep opinions about tony to yourself, unless they're positive and/or sympathetic. aka NO HATING ON TONY - OR STEVE for that matter.  
> this fic is in the form of detached memories from tony's POV but not quite, if you get me. so not much detail and not much continuous flow until later in the fic  
> many, many thanks to my best friend of a decade and my beta, who made heart eyes at this story from across the atlantic and made it so much better. love you! :) please pay her a visit @ north-char on tumblr  
> quick note that the title refers to a medical/psychosomatic condition in which the sufferer undergoes something that feels like a heart attack but actually isn't. It can be caused by trauma or receiving bad news, etc. and is formerly known as takotsubo cardiomyopathy, aptly termed 'broken heart syndrome'  
> this is officially the longest thing i have ever posted, and this is only the first chapter, so please stick around.  
> apologies in advance for my complete lack of knowledge about geography/traditions/language in the US.  
> hope you enjoy this character-study-poorly-disguised-as-a-fic!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter one edited with a more or less significant change on the 30th of May, 2019  
> tw for homophobia and child abuse, as well as a suicide attempt. 'happy' reading, people.

 

 

>    _The soul becomes dyed with the colour of its thoughts._

_-_  Marcus Aurelius

* * *

 

There's a country song playing on the radio, a soft orange sifting through the air. Jarvis' eyes dance wistfully as he sips his favourite tea. Its fragrant, slightly citrus scent wafts across the kitchen.

Tony's sitting on the chair, swinging his legs and drinking hot chocolate, the special one that Ana makes, rich and just this side of too sweet. She's humming vanilla plumes as she cooks, leaning into her husband ever so slightly as he joins in with his eloquent tenor that has the same clear reddish-brown glow as his tea, shaded with a touch of affection. Aunt Peggy is sitting in the corner, reading quietly, a soft smile on her face.

He knows better than to disturb her while reading.

The boy can't suppress his delighted squeak as Jarvis' favourite song comes on, that really long one, with the high robin's-egg-blue notes and the deep, intense mustard shades, all the colours of the rainbow coming out in swirls and shimmers in between and around them. The sun's beams set the floating colours alight, their iridescence flaring bright like the feathers of the birds that Ana showed him once. Tony watches them dance through the air until Jarvis blows them away with a pale coral sigh.

"What would you say to walking Watson, sir?"

Tony eagerly drains the rest of his drink, wiping away the dribble with the back of his hand as he nods.

"Can we go to the lake?" he asks breathlessly, jumping off the his seat and placing the mug into the sink, hugging Ana from behind as a thank you. She smiles, brushes a soft hand across his head, and then attacks him with a wet cloth, wiping away the delightful stickiness around his mouth despite his best attempts to ward her off.

Jarvis chuckles, puffs of reddish cotton wool.

* * *

Watson splashes happily in the clear shallows, his long red curls floating in the water along with the white splatters of the splashes he makes. Tony blinks, and the foamy blotches of sound disappear - Watson is standing still, tongue lolling as he pants, amber eyes bright and happy.

Jarvis is sitting cross-legged on a nearby boulder, glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he reads a novel, spikes of dandelion crumbling every time he turns a page. The title reads  _The Ministry of Fear._

"What's a 'ministry'?" Tony asks, squinting at the cover.

Jarvis smiles, his eyes glowing a vivid green in the bright light of the outdoors.

"It's a part of a government," he says, "Especially in Britain, which is where I come from."

Tony nods, processing the information tinted with  _that_ shade of umber

Watson emits a high-pitched, cloudy whine, and Tony turns around, patting his thighs in the universal 'come-hither' gesture for dogs. The setter bounds out of the water, shaking himself vigorously. Tony giggles as Jarvis wrinkles his nose, swiping a few droplets off the pages, hastily catching his glasses as they slip off his face.

Watson, however, throws himself on top of his owner, rubbing his wet fur across the boy's jumper.

Tony's giggles turn into squeals of protest, and he pouts as Jarvis attempts to hide his smile behind the book.

* * *

 He meets them as he's walking down the corridor.

One of them is quite short, with dark hair and a pair of glasses sliding off the edge of his nose. He looks nervous, but his eyes are kind and sympathetic and... _knowing_ as he looks at Tony. The other man is tall, in a military uniform. He's almost the opposite of his companion - tall, blond, but his face is achingly sad and so, so  _kind._

 _"_ Who are you?" Tony asks them.

The smaller man's eyes widen, as if he wasn't expecting that question, but the other man - he looks a bit like Captain America, know he thinks of it - smiles a bit awkwardly and crouches down. His blue eyes shutter as Tony flinches away on instinct, because how many times has Dad done that, shaking one of the robots or little things Tony made in his face?

"I'm Captain Stevens," the man rumbles softly, his voice a deep cerulean thrum, baritone and soothing, "And my friend here is Doctor Potts. You must be Tony."

The other man - Doctor Potts, was it? - winces just slightly, a wry smile making the corner of his mouths curl up. But the Captain is extending a large hand for him to shake, and Ton figures that it's only polite to shake it, even if these men are yet another example of the faceless, nameless people who wander this house.

His hand drowns in the warm and firm, yet surprisingly gentle grip of the man. The surprise must have shown on his face because the man smiles again, even sadder than before.

The other man, Doctor Potts, kneels down as well, leaning in just slightly into Captain Stevens, and he too, shakes Tony's hand.

"You're your own man, kid." he says, voice a rich red, eyes pained as he stands up again, "Remember that."

Tony frowns. All the others were comparing him to Dad, saying how great he'll be when he follows in Dad's footsteps.

But the Captain is smiling again, and Tony feels drawn to it, compelled to look at him, the man with that sad, sad smile.

"Don't be sad." Tony blurts and immediately backs away, because  _he shouldn't have said that-_

The man shakes his head, but his face is a fraction lighter.

"I'm not sad, Tony," he murmurs, that ocean blue staining the air around his head like a halo, "Because I know that one day, you will be a hero."

They get up and leave, hurrying down the hall as Tony stands there, speechless.

* * *

 "You can blow out the candles and make a wish!" Mama says, voice hushed and smoothed into a barely-there violet melody. She cards her fingers through his hair, delicately weaving through what she and Ana and Aunt Peggy tell him are proper curls, like the ones on those old pictures Mama shows him, the ones from where she comes from. Tony can never get enough of them, or the stories she tells him with each photo.

He looks at the candles, face scrunched up, trying to think of a wish.

 _I wish... that I could meet Captain America,_ he thinks, and takes a deep breath.

All five cherry red candles sputter out, and the room erupts into pumpkin orange cheers. Watson barks happily, but Jarvis quickly shushes him.

Mama gives him the knife to cut the cake as Aunt Peggy and Ana start to sing happy birthday, diamond and amethyst. Jarvis and Mama join in a beat later.

Tony pushes down on the knife, the blade sinking into the dough. Jam oozes out of the cut. He pulls the knife out, setting it aside for later inspection. He pokes a finger at the jam, scooping some up despite Jarvis' pointed glance, and shoves his finger in his mouth.

It's sticky, sweet, and very, very raspberry.

Tony devours two slices, gets jam everywhere, and is hauled off by Jarvis to wash his face and hands. By the time he comes back, it’s time to open the presents.

Tony makes an unashamed beeline for Jarvis' blocky present, wrapped in red with a gold bow. He sits down next to it, and begins to unwrap it. He undoes the bow, then takes it off, setting it aside. After that, he promptly rips the wrapping paper open, but carefully folds it and places it next to the ribbon. He examines the contents and tries not to squeal, because he's big, he's five, he oughtn’t make those sorts of noises anymore. However, the grin spreading across his face couldn’t be stifled if he tried.

It's a book on engineering, an immense encyclopaedia on the history of science, and a stack of Captain America comics.

He rams into Jarvis, who swings him up and lets out a surprised but pleased salmon _oof_. Jarvis sets him down after Tony starts wriggling, and smiles.

"I’m glad you liked it, Tony." he says, a pleased bubble of raspberry red, like the jam in the cake that Tony can still taste on his tongue, seeds stuck in between his teeth.

Tony’s brow furrows. Jarvis has never called him by his name before, always just _sir_. Something warm blossoms in his chest, and he buries his face in Jarvis’ shirt again.

Ana’s and Jarvis' collective present is _The Lord of the Rings_ , with a note in Jarvis' spidery handwriting proclaiming _For when you will understand it_. There’s an equally spindly doodle of Watson on the back. Ana gives him _The Chronicles of Narnia_ and the complete collection of _Sherlock Holmes_. Mama’s is a pendant of a lightning bolt that tinkles with gentle rings of rose-gold. There are some circuits and wires on behalf of Dad. Aunt Peggy's present is squishy, blue paper crinkling around the soft contents. He tears the star-patterned wrapping paper apart.

It's a teddy bear, with a shield and a tiny, star-spangled costume. Tony glances at the wrapping paper, suppressing a snicker. Peggy eyelids droop, barely for a second, but quickly her eyes twinkle cheekily at him. Aware of the conflicted expression on Peggy’s face just a moment earlier, Tony hugs the stuffed animal to his chest, grinning. Her eyes light up again, and his heart unclenches as he shuffles over to her for a hug that she gives him readily.

"What are you going to call it?" she asks when he pulls away, a sly smile on her face, fiery orange sifting out from her lips.

He thinks for a bit, feeling the soft golden fur under his palm and against his neck.

"Captain…” he pauses, then feels the most wicked grin on his face. “Captain Abearica."

Peggy chuckles, a strong blood orange, but with a wisp of sad amethyst curling around it.

* * *

 "Tony," Dad says, unable to keep the anxiety out of his voice, "This is Obadiah Stane. He's my new business partner; he’ll be living with us, for now."

The man is tall, with a grey, neatly trimmed beard. His eyes glitter coldly, contrary to the wide smile on his face.

He doesn’t have any hair, Tony realises absently. The man seems to be doing alright without it, all huge smiles and loud noises. He doesn’t know what Jarvis and Ana were so worried about, that stuffy day in the kitchen.

Besides, what sort of treatment - 'surgery', they'd called it - takes away hair?

The man - Obadiah, or Mr. Stane as he’ll probably be told to call him - crouches down.

"Hey there little man," he says, and Tony opens his mouth to protest, but closes it again as shards of yellow sink into him, "Tony, right? Call me Obie."

The boy nods, eyes flicking between the man - Obie - and the fragments of lemon yellow that pierce the air.

"You look like your father," Obie says, sounding faintly amused, scrutinising him, "but you've got your mother's...shall we say, _presence._ "

Tony blinks, unable to contain his surprise.  
  
No-one has ever compared him to Dad.

Obie’s laugh is a booming, acidic-looking-pineapple, sort of affair. Tony looks over to see his dad's mouth flatten dangerously.

\---

Obie's nice. He lets Tony get away with stealing bits of scrap machinery from the workshop. Brings him odd little machines and electronic trinkets with a smile, ruffling his hair and saying in a deep mustard baritone " _Use them a couple of times before you take them apart, would you, smart guy?_ ". Got him pizza from New York when Dad took him to his first Expo, telling the flashing cameras and jostling reporters what a genius Tony was, you should see the engine he built last week, while Dad told Tony to smile, not answer any questions, not tell anyone anything.

Obie's there, tutting and frowning when Dad tells Tony that he's a disappointment of a son, good for nothing more than taking stuff apart, destroying all of Dad's work, stealing it and then ruining it.

He even apologises after he tries to take Tony away from Jarvis and Ana to meet his nephew, Ty.

Tony likes Ty, Ty and his peroxide-white mercury for a voice, Ty and his ability to keep up when Tony rambles about his ideas for machines, for all the ways they could rescue Captain America. Ty even makes the odd suggestion, sometimes, and sometimes Tony listens.

But he will never, ever, replace his family. Not his real family, not Jarvis, not Mama, not Ana, not Watson.

* * *

 It's a nice day, Tony thinks vaguely.

The cars outside are a distant steel-blue thrum, metal glimmering under a wide azure sky.

Dad is off to try and find something. Captain America isn't a some _thing_ , he's a some _one_ Tony had said, and Obie had laughed, clapping him on the back.

 _"Already outwitting you, eh, old man?_ " he'd boomed, a tsunami of acid yellow, stinging, and Dad had grimaced, glaring at Tony.

They'd left, ignoring his pleas to be allowed to come with them.

Now, he's sitting with his face plastered to the window while Ty and Greg are whispering in the corner, and he knows they're talking about him.

He's younger than them, but seven isn't that much younger than ten. He's not a baby, he can hear them.

They're still whispering when Mr. Stone comes to get the three of them to go outside.

In the elevator, Greg makes faces at Tony's back, while Ty pretends to frown, but he's shaking with silent laughter. Mr. Stone is reading the newspaper, he doesn't notice. Well, Tony hopes he doesn't.

Tony pretends he can't see them in the ceiling mirrors.

* * *

 " _What did he say_?" Dad hisses, rounding on Jarvis, who snaps his mouth shut with an audible click, eyes narrowing and glinting a dangerous green.

Tony makes a small sound of protest, because it's hardly  _Jarvis_  who should get yelled at; Dad whirls around, an awful, roiling cloud of purple and yellow and green and grey. Maybe having more than one colour, maybe it would be pretty, on another person, in another world, but the truth is that, right now, the oil-slick rainbow of colours dancing around his dad makes Tony feel sick to his stomach. The drink he's holding is sloshing, and there’s a dangerous look on his face. Tony doesn't back down. He hasn’t done anything wrong.

Has he?

Too late now.

"I don't like him," Tony repeats, scrunching his nose as he remembers the sickeningly sweet man, with that look on his face that practically blared out to the whole world how important he thought he was, "'Cause he was pink. A, a really, really, bright pink. It hurt."

Dad snarls, sets the glass down. The drink inside splashes out a bit and he growls in frustration, a serrated blade of charcoal ripping out of his throat. Tony winces, like it struck him in the chest. Think of pretty alabaster Ana, sweet amber Jarvis, white-summer-cloud Watson, he urges himself, but all that comes to mind is that sick, oily rainbow, the colour of bruises on skin.

Meanwhile, his dad advances. Tony backs away, away from the cloud hanging dangerously around him, tendrils sneaking out. He doesn't like the bottles, the ones that are always empty by the end of the night. They make his dad like this, angry without good reason. Tony hasn't done anything wrong, maybe Dad doesn't like it when he-

Mama flutters in, her words lavender-soft.

"Howard-  _What are you doing?!_  Anthony-"

The man looming over him sneers, and the pain that flares across Tony's cheek sends him reeling. It’s a crimson slap that sends him spinning into the desk, the corner sliding like a knife past his eyes.

Maybe-real colour drips down, onto his hands, drops of wine from his body, his body, the bottle.

He can’t see anymore. It’s all red, his blood, the slap, his sobs, pulling him into a boiling sea of carmine, growing deeper and deeper by the second. What matter is a riptide in the open ocean? What matter is the depth when you’re drowning? What matter is the difference between a boy’s body and a bottle when one is so much easier to hit?

_...My son is messed up, Maria, he's fucking crazy, he's hearing colours - what normal kid does that?_

He doesn't understand. Colours are real. They're there, they've always been there. He’s just too stupid to see it, Tony thinks angrily, but stops himself. He could, if he wanted to. They’re obvious. Mama's lavender petals, Jarvis' soothing ripples of amber, Peggy's dark amethyst, Obie's burning yellow, Dad's-

No.

That man with the thundercloud, the bruise, isn't Dad anymore.

It's this Howard, not Dad.

It's that stuff, that drink. The bottle. Tony looks down, at the wine sliding down his forearm. He wipes at it, fiercely trying to get it away, away from him. It just moves around until it coats his whole arm and his other hand. He stares at it, the way the light shines off it, how it slowly oozes out of the cut in his skin.

He remembers his mum telling him once, in stressed, clipped tones of mauve, when he asked what Dad drank all the time, that it was like wine. It was  _like wine, you know how silly grown-ups can get at dinners when they drink a lot of it? It’s like that, except a bit stronger. Just a bit stronger, you don’t have anything to worry about, mio cuore._

She had sounded awfully worried, her usually soothing italian spiky.

His blood splatters on the floor, and mixes with the liquid already there.

Tony picks himself up, on autopilot, unaware that he's moving until the glass is a solid weight in his hand.

He turns around.

 _Give me my Dad back!_ he hears someone scream. There’s a fresh surge of red, and the glass shatters on the floor. It’s not wine. He looks at his arms now, a thin layer of blood having dried already.

It’s not wine.

He's dimly aware of the arms around him, the scent of cinnamon and citrus and fresh linen, and he slumps, the struggle going out of him.

* * *

 Jarvis bursts into the kitchen, eyes blazing. Ana doesn't look up from her task of dabbing at the cut on Tony's cheek with antiseptic, even as Jarvis drops heavily into the chair.

"You're going to boarding school." he says tensely, a hard terracotta edge to his tone.

Ana freezes.

"He's eight!" she cries, turning around, pressing a little too hard and making Tony wince, "And- all the other boys will be at least four years older! God knows what they'll do, he's smarter than them, and we-"

Ana breaks off. She sucks in a sharp breath, staring far too long at Tony’s face, making him squirm uncomfortably.

"Ana." Jarvis says, eyes dull, their usual vibrance gone.

Ana closes her eyes for a second, hand hovering shakily over her chest. Tony reaches out to try to take her hand-

Aunt Peggy slams the door open, her harsh breaths as red as her lips, and Tony drops his hand in surprise, jerking away.

"He can't stay here." she almost shouts, eyes flashing.

Silence reigns, ringing loudly, in Tony's ears, a harsh, oppressing bank of nothing. The absence of noise is accented by an absence of motion, a mournful snapshot of the suddenly dark and dreary kitchen.

"We'll visit you," Jarvis says finally, the first time the adults in the room had addressed Tony. He looks at Jarvis, lines creasing his young forehead. Ana stoops over, to kiss it, but it doesn’t smooth out.

* * *

 The robot wobbles unsteadily across the kitchen table, whirring gentle grey and warm whisky swirls Tony watches it, wide-eyed. It sparks a bit, topples, but Jarvis catches it, hand darting across the table. The ring on his little finger glints, the K insignia flashing in Tony's peripheral vision.

"Has it got a name?" he asks with a puff of auburn fractals, pushing the robot into Tony's outstretched palm.

Tony's mind flashes back to the film he had watched the other day, tucked in between Jarvis and Ana - Sherlock Holmes. The actor's voice was butterscotch and pineapple (and perhaps a hint of silver? That might have been the kettle’s whistle.)

"Sherlock," he blurts, "Uh, Holmes."

He glances over at Jarvis, who has a sort of half-smile, eyes soft.

"I believe Watson would like that." he murmurs, nodding at the setter curled up in the basket near the door.

Tony nods.

Without thinking too much, he reaches out and catches Jarvis' hand in his own. It’s a childish gesture - one that Howard assures him he should be ashamed of. He knows Jarvis likes it. Jarvis wraps his own hand, still infuriatingly large, around Tony's, squeezing gently.

"Will you take Mr. Holmes to boarding school?" the man questions, and the words are that sad rusty shade again, one that Tony is becoming far too familiar with.

Jarvis’s fingers tighten, a spasm, as something twisted flashes across his face. 

Tony gives him a stiff shrug, suppressing the shard of panic that lances through him. 

Jarvis closes his eyes, briefly. Tony gets up sharply as a tear rolls down his cheek.

 The butler stands up, wiping it away with the hand not holding Tony's, which he tries to tug away. Tony clings on stubbornly, even as he wraps his arms around Jarvis, holding on fiercely.

 "Love you," he says bluntly, by way of consolation.

Jarvis presses a kiss to the crown of his head and exhales a shaky wisp of coral.

"And I you, my dear boy." he says, the words glowing a soft amber.

Tony closes his eyes, trying to ingrain the colour in his mind.

* * *

 The dorm is freezing.

Figures, since it's about minus five degrees celcius outside and snowing. Copiously. And since there's no-one here except Tony, a cat, and a few janitors, the school is saving money on heating. Meaning that Tony's reduced to huddling under the blankets he stole off the other beds with a flashlight as he leafs through the comics Jarvis gave him for his birthday seven years ago.

He's got little notes stuck in everywhere, analysing every bit of each scene, idle doodles, thoughts.

Mostly, they are just ways they could find Captain America. Scanning, thermal sensors, things that could be possible in just a few years.

After all, there have been people in space, on the moon, feats of engineering so impressive that his head swims and Ty jokingly tells him that Tony's salivating, but there are _people in space_ , the astronauts looking out at the world-

_What if they could get a super powerful telescope to look for a body in the ice?_

He reaches for the pen, doesn't find it, and spends the next minute searching for it, dislodging the carefully constructed tent from around him and onto him.

It becomes stifling very quickly as he thrashes to get the heavy folds of material off of him, the dense fabric suffocating-

A burst of frigid air hits his face and he flinches, panting mist and burgundy into the room.

He takes the opportunity to squint at the large, imposing clock on the far wall, it's ticks regular slashes of brown. Jarvis and Ana had promised to come and visit him, and were due at about five, their letter said. It had taken him far too long to decipher Jarvis' unusually messy handwriting. It was always like that, a bit like a scrawl, but that letter had looked like he'd done the whole 'take a spider, give it a bath in the inkwell, and then set it off running on the paper' thing.

It's half past four.

Tony sighs, and burrows under the blankets again.

* * *

  _Find a girl, start a family, be a good American citizen. Make weapons, protect our country._

Tony felt the bitter twist in his chest as he remembered those words, hating them so viciously that he wanted to write them down and then burn them. Write them down and then rip them to pieces. Write them down and then destroy them until he hurt, until everything shriveled up and died in the face of his hatred.

He dimly remembers Jarvis' words, spoken so long ago while the cut on his cheek burned with iodine and alcohol.  _Do not let his words get to you. You know those suits that astronauts wear? They are impenetrable, correct? Even space cannot get to them. Now, Master Anthony, you are wearing one of those suits, and they are designed to withstand the pull of nothingness, because space is a vacuum, and a vacuum is nothing, but it is dangerous. His words are nothing, and you can withstand them._

But Howard won.

He always won.

_Stark men are made of iron, boy. Don't give in to emotions, or you'll be just another sensitive weakling, like you were. Don't give in to anyone, you hear me? Or you'll be food for the vultures. Don't think with your dick either, but I know you will._

The bottle of brandy stands untouched on his bedside table.

He's coughed up enough of the stuff to last him a life-time, after Howard pinned him down and made him drink it, forcing the burning liquid down his throat while he retched and spluttered.

 _Gays don't drink,_ Howard had sneered, that slick, oily rainbow crawling through the air like a predator, as he'd wrenched the pictures out of Tony's grasp and slapped him across the face with them, _You're not one of those fairies, are you, eh, boy? This'll put some hair on your chest._

Then he'd seen who was in the pictures, and all hell had broken loose.

 _How dare you!_ Howard's voice had been painfully close to a shriek, and he had clutched the photographs to his chest as he backhanded Tony, eyes savage,  _How dare- you absolute-_

The string of insults that had followed were so creative that Tony had laughed, burst into hysterics, shame burning through him, worse than his aching jaw, worse than the crude words that spilled from his sadly very sober father's lips.

 _He sees right through you,_ the voice in Tony's head jeers,  _Sees how useless you are, what a failure, that even your own father can't stand you._

 _But he's wrong,_ he thinks fiercely,  _I'm not gay. I like girls too._

It's confusing. He likes girls, but he likes boys. Both  _like that._

He doesn't get it. Being normal but being -  _that -_ at the same time. 

The bottle is still sitting in front of him, taunting.

He gives in.

Picks up the glass.

Crushes it, pain lancing through his hand and up his arm and attacking his brain, the crunching noise a dull purple.

Takes the bottle in his unsteady right hand, his left bleeding everywhere.

Lifts it to his lips, the liquid sloshing ominously, muddy bubbles popping like viscous lava.

They burn like lava.

* * *

 

The box.

It's not there.

The one with all of Jarvis' letters, and Mama's necklace, and the books, and the comics, and the little doodles and scraps and photos.

_It's gone._

He charges out of the room, already knowing deep down what has happened to it. It makes him sick, makes him feel violated, makes him feel like a part of him has been ripped away.

He's there, in the hallway, a glass in his hand. He's more rumpled than usual, soot in his white hair, dazed. 

"What did you do to it?" Tony growls, marching up to him, the scent of heavy liquor and smoke invading his nostrils and making him want to retch, "WHAT DID YOU  _DO TO IT?!"_

He doesn't care that he screamed, doesn't care that the whole house can hear, because all he can look at is his own father, as Howard's face changes from glazed to equal parts gleeful and disgusted as he immediately cottons on to what Tony's talking about.

"Burned it," he slurrs, toasting the air with the half-empty tumbler. It's only ten in the morning, and his voice is already the colour of bile, spreading out through the air, "Burned the whole, pathetic lot, boy. You gonna be a little sissy forever?"

Tony stalks back into his room, slams the door shut, shoves his dresser in front of it and screams himself hoarse into his pillow.

When the anger stops, the tears come. And when the tears abate, he's got nothing left.

* * *

 Tony is half-way through a lesson of advanced physics and bored out of his mind when a short, balding man pokes his head in. It’s the headmaster.

"Mr. Stark," he says softly, a slithering grey cloud, and worry slams into Tony at his tone, not the usual _you've just royally fucked up by making something explode and/or punched someone in the face and I will now proceed to gleefully punish you because I really hate your sorry ass_ but  _I am so sorry for your loss, now bye bye_ , "There's someone here to see you."

Tony scrambles out of his seat, throwing his things into his satchel. He barely keeps himself from running for the door, but still almost collides with the headmaster.

They walk quickly - Tony almost trips over his own feet trying to keep up - towards one of the offices, unease slowly crawling its way up Tony's throat.

The door squeaks open, and Jarvis doesn’t even turn around, face gaunt and hopeless-looking.

"It's Ana." he says, hoarse, ragged citrine, "She's - she’s gone, Tony."

The world crumbles.

* * *

 Jarvis and Howard are talking in low tones to the Director of MIT, their colours muted by the wall into vague monochrome shapes as he waits in the corridor.

They don't show any signs of letting up anytime soon, so Tony gets up, pacing up and down the five metre stretch of wall, kicking a discarded catalogue out of the way, and avoiding the stray students running past.

He gives up with a frustrated growl, flopping back down onto the chair, knee bouncing up and down, and he can't get it to stop.

He growls, forcibly pushing it still, then crossing his legs, the movement jerky, uncoordinated, his edginess seeping out of him and permeating the atmosphere, thinning it out until he can't breathe.

His foot starts to wriggle, rubbing dirt into the jeans covering his thigh.

"You okay man?"

The burst of green startles him, making him jump and glare at the owner of the offending voice.

The kid reels back when he sees Tony's face.

"-Hey, aren't you Tony Stark? You okay? You're like fifteen though, what are you doing here?"

"Which of those questions would you like me to answer?" Tony snaps, sliding off the chair and drawing himself up to his full but admittedly unimpressive height. He's a good three inches shorter than the student.

The kid shrugs, but his eyes are sharp as he narrows them at Tony.

"Okay, platypus," Tony starts angrily, feeling a vicious thrill of satisfaction as the student gapes at him in offense, "Yes, I'm Tony Stark, yes, I am  _okay_ , yes, I'm fifteen, and I'm here because I'm waiting for Daddy dearest to finish bullying your Director into submission so he can ship me off to here. Got a problem? And who the fuck are you anyway?"

The kid glares at him.

"No," he drawls, "I don't have a problem, I was just asking if you were okay. You're the same colour as the wall, by the way." he nods at the white-washed wall behind Tony, "So just saying. And I'm James Rhodes, not  _platypus."_

They stare at each other for a few seconds, then burst out laughing, red and green mingling in starbursts, like fireworks. 

Once they start, they can't stop, and they laugh until Tony's wheezing and clutching his sides, borderline hysterical from nerves and the weird cocktail of resentment and hope brewing in his chest. Rhodes is crying, keeled over, teeth flashing white, and as soon as they make eye contact they start off again-

_I wish Ana could see this. Hey, Ana, I'm bonding! Get the fuck out of your grave!_

Tony's tears turn into something else. He is definitely hysterical now.

They calm down after what seems like an eternity, still giggling faintly.

"Why," Rhodes starts, hiccuping and wiping his eyes, "The hell am I a platypus?"

Tony shrugs.

"Your hat," he says, pointing at the floppy, knitted abomination sitting atop Rhodes' hair, "Compared to your clothes, compared to your shoes. Seriously, your fashion sense puts a platypus to shame."

Rhodes stares at him.

"I really don't see the connection, but okay." he says slowly, a wave of careful verdure, "And since I'm only right here to be, quote unquote, "some prodigy's handler" I guess...Welcome to MIT, Mr. Stark."

Tony gapes at him, because  _he's been accepted into MIT, holy shit-_

"Thank you very much, Mr. Platypus," he says faintly, and Rhodes rolls his eyes, "And you are officially dismissed as my handler. I'm a big boy."

"No you're not."

"Age is just a number!" Tony squawks indignantly.

"I was thinking more about your height."

" _Hey!_ "

* * *

 

* * *

 

  _Blue used to be my favourite colour._

_Now I ain't got no choice._

* * *

 It's all he can think about.

That road.

The car.

That wall.

The ashes.

The single, charred necklace, stained red.

_December 16th, 1991._

_121691_

_121691_

_121691 121691 1216911261691121691121691-_

He wants to scream.

He has screamed. Cried himself hoarse. Drowned in so much expensive whiskey that he can't think straight, can only see those frigid blue numbers swirling round and round and round like a carousel. Reality has long since shattered and put itself back together, but it's all wrong, shifted imperceptibly, wrong on a base level that he doesn't understand, like he's looking in a mirror and the reflection has a life of its own.

_Road._

_Car._

_Wall._

_Ashes._

_Necklace._

_Bodies._

_Blood._

It should have been him.

Not Mama.

Not Howard.

Not Jarvis.

_Jarvis._

Edwin Jarvis, who'd lost so much but kept on giving. Jarvis, who was just a butler but so much more than that. Jarvis, cat-like but a dog person to the core. Jarvis, who drank tea whatever the weather and sang along to the radio. Jarvis, who quoted Shakespeare to prove a point.

 _Be great in act as you have been in thought_ , he had said, _King John,_ _Act Five, Scene One._

 _Well then_ , Tony realises, feeling his face twist, _T_ _ime to shine._

\---

The river looks dangerous.

Cold.

Unforgiving.

The ice has cracked, he realises. Or maybe it just hasn't frozen yet.

He's already drowning. The cars behind him are a creeping fog of steel-blue. The river is swimming - he snorts at the macabre pun - in front of his eyes, too close but too far.

He shivers.

Now is not the time for paradoxes.

But then again, isn't everything one big paradox? One big hypocritical lie?

Life is cromulent.

Trying to make peace with chaos and war.

Trying to make a better person with harsh words.

Creating life for it to die.

Loving someone only for it to fade.

Being kind just to be selfish.

In the end, it all boils down to  _you._

How you see everything. How you interpret it. How your brain interprets it.

If he closes his eyes, technically nothing exists. He can't  _understand_ the photons that are bouncing off everything and back into his eyes, so they're not there.

If you don't exist, then nothing exists.

Simple, really.

Except not at all.

There's a word for it, he remembers Jarvis saying: sonder. The realisation that every life is as complex as your own.

_Microuniverses._

_Every person is a little universe that forms a big one._

Everything links together. One big jigsaw. You spend all your life picking up the pieces and not even realising it, just some people fit them together, make links, see the bigger picture that's really just a tiny part of an infinite one.

The human brain is a miracle, he thinks, staring out at the water, it's like every person has a little office, their own little oblivion, in a way. Their brain. You get little parcels of information and you file it away, into little sections. The way you picture the world outside depends on how you file these packets, how you interpret them, what they contain.

He likes that.

But stars and suns and moons and planets and eventually these universes die.

Supernovas.

 

Stars aren't yellow.

_Well, technically, they can be almost any colour, even red white and blue-_

He giggles faintly. Maybe Captain America will be in this ice, and will save him.

But stars aren't five-pointed and coloured in with a nice bright yellow by massive celestial babies-

 _That's not an elegant pre-suicide thought_ , he admonishes himself,  _Here lies Tony Stark, or what's left of him, and his last thought was about massive babies crawling through the Milky Way and colouring the stars in yellow._

 

But stars.

They are blue, when you see them in the sky.

Blue like the sky. Blue like the ocean. Blue like blue roses. Blue like the eyes in Aunt Peggy's stories. Blue like all things deep and mysterious and unattainable. 

Blue like the river beneath him. Blue like the ice. Blue like the screech of cars behind him as he vaults over the railings.

 

It's always been blue.

Because he's drowning in it.

* * *

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._

It's like a heartbeat.

A simple heartbeat.

Tony opens his eyes.

_Blue._

Something's wrong.

_White._

No.

What?

He tries to move, but he can't, he's drowning.

Is this hell?

No.

Rhodey.

_Beep_

_Beep_

_Beep_

Just sound.

White walls.

Blue water.

No colours.

Just white walls, blue water.

He manages to turn his head, and there he is, Rhodey, with wet hair and a puffy face.

Passed out.

No Jarvis.

The pain slams into him, and he can't breathe, can't think, can't see anything.

_Road._

_Car._

_Wall._

_Ashes._

_Necklace._

_Bodies._

_Blood._

White walls.

Blue water.

But that's not it.

Something is wrong, the foundations that he's built his world on have shattered.

Something is missing, a massive support, the base, the thing that his world revolves around, the centre stone, whatever you call it. It's missing, and everything is crumbling around him.

_White walls._

_Blue water._

He shifts, and the bed creaks hideously.

Rhodey jerks awake, inhaling sharply.

Rhodey with his soft green aura.

"You're awake," he says softly.

Tony stares.

It's not Rhodey.

It can't be.

He's got no green anymore.

 

Then it hits him.

That's what's missing.

The colours.

The beeping is just plain noise.

But how is that possible? Is this what life is to everyone else? Devoid of that core bond? 

 

_White walls, blue water._

_Road._

_Car._

_Wall._

_Ashes._

_Necklace._

_Bodies._

_Blood._

 

He can't-

 

White walls.

Blue water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _~~kudos and comments are like jaffa cakes, i need them to survive but i can't get them~~_  
>  feedback, kudos, and comments appreciated!


	2. the hero who couldn't save anyone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to those who have left a comment, they warm my heart and push this thing along :) and to my darling ~~schmoodle~~ beta and bff, chaplin. still loving you from across the ocean, punk, even though you didn't do much for this chapter. which leads me on to the fact that this chapter was edited maybe thrice and hasn't had much beta'ing for most of it.  
> also, i realised that the scene on the helicarrier is of them being mind-controlled by the stone, but good god, RDJ's eyes. That man has ridiculously liquid and expressive eyes. you could see the hurt and the self-loathing of the character he was playing, and just _damn_  
>  Anyway, much shorter chapter this time, and I'm skipping out about two decades of tony's life, so we've gone from 1991 to 2012. n.b. the timeline is canonical save from tony's d.o.b which is in 1975 rather than 1970.  
> i had a lot of fun mucking around with the colours in this particular chapter, because red and blue seem to be so conceptually linked that i can shove in a lot of different metaphors and whatnot. blue is the really big focus here, but blue, let's face it, is a pretty awesome colour to wax poetic about, so i'm (hopefully) allowed.
> 
> as always, please leave a kudo and a comment. a bookmark if you're feeling generous ;)

When JARVIS patches the call through to the workshop, Tony throws down the wrench onto a hollow block of metal just to annoy Fury.

He hasn't heard anything useful from the bastard for two years, he's allowed. Just talks about when Tony's planning to let the SHIELD scientists reverse-engineer the armour, what new tech he's got, any new gadgets up for grabs, is he actually going to turn up at the Helicarrier to scare ten years out of the rookies or is Coulson going to have to taser him and bring his limp, drooling body up in a bag, when is he going to do this, when is he going to do that. Ever since the fiasco with the palladium, getting stabbed in the neck by 'Natalie' and being judged as only suitable for consulting, Tony's been trying to avoid or antagonise Fury and his minions. Preferably both at the same time, but he hasn’t figured out how to do that yet.

"If you're not too busy," Fury says pointedly just as Tony opens his mouth, "I have something that I'm sure you'll be interested in. Or rather, someone."

Tony grimaces, picks up the wrench, and goes back to trying to unscrew a metal bolt.

"Are you sure? Pretty sure I've seen all that needs to be seen, or are you trying to intimidate me because you have a bet with Coulson?"

He can practically hear Fury's eye-roll.

"Your genius brain is wrong, Stark.' he states acidly, which is the status quo for his tone when he's talking to Tony, "Your final search party was a success. We've found Captain America."

_What?_

Tony drops the wrench for real.

It clangs harshly, metallic and grinding as Tony's brain short-circuits, screeching to an embarrassing halt as he tries to get his mouth to do something other than open and flap uselessly.

He had been searching for  _years_ , and Howard hadn't stopped either. They had been looking for a total of seventy years, and holy  _fuck_ how was that-

When he doesn't answer, Fury continues into the shocked silence.

"He was frozen in the ice," he says, sounding pleased, "And the serum made it more like cryo than hypothermia."

Tony's brain is still reloading, and he feels like he can't breathe. Should he cry or should he laugh? Should he be happy that Howard's dream boy was alive or bitter?

"I-" he starts, swallowing around the lump in his throat, "Really? Or is that a- a euphemism for something? Some sort of secret mission that's so secret that I don't even know I'm doing it-"

"No Stark," Fury assures him, half amused and half irritated, "It's not a euphemism. We found Captain America half a year ago."

Tony still doesn't believe it. It's too good to be true. And wait, they found him _half_ a _year ago_ and they _didn't_ tell him?

"You found him?" he all but squeaks, "You found him _six months ago._  Why didn't you- Are you sure? The Captain America? The _Actual Fucking Captain America_? How do I know that you haven't just stuck one of your minions in the suit or created another super-soldier?"

Fury sighs, and he's definitely annoyed now. Tony's brain is too frazzled to count that as a win.

"Yes, it's the original Captain America. I wasn't aware that there was another one. Care to share, Stark?"

Tony flips the speaker off, and it's annoying that there isn't a video feed.

Fury continues.

"Anyway, you're wanted. We've got a situation in Vienna, so get your genius billionare philanthropist and ex-playboy-" Tony makes an insulted noise, but Fury ignores him, "-ass over here. You're going on a mission."

Fury hangs up without even a cursory goodbye, like the horrible, rude person that he is and Tony swears profusely.

He's pretty sure he beats some sort record for the amount of blaspheme said in a minute.

"Indeed, sir." JARVIS says dryly.

Tony gives the camera in the corner the middle finger and the silence turns prickly.

"Sorry J.," he manages.

"Apology accepted, sir." JARVIS replies, sounding far too miffed for a supposedly emotionless AI. 

* * *

 Fury is waiting when Tony lands on the helicarrier, Maria Hill standing behind him, completely unconcerned but still terrifying.

They wait patiently for him to break and make the first move.

_Fuck it._

Tony rips off his helmet and stalks forward, aiming for intimidating but probably looking like a toddler having a tantrum. He stands a few feet away, crossing his arms and glaring at them. He's not going to let it show just how much he wants to see his childhood hero to the Director of SHIELD. It could be used as blackmail. Besides, Rhodey knowing is bad enough. That one time at MIT when Tony was so plastered that Rhodey had to take care of him, and he  _had_ to be wearing Captain America boxers. Nearly two decades and Rhodey still hasn't let him live it down.

"First off, what happened, and second, can I - can I see him?" his voice is a little breathless, cracking at the end as he attempts to keep his fanboying internal and his suspicion external.

It doesn't work. Fury's one eye is steely but his general expression is that of a cat who just caught a mouse in a mouse trap. The mouse being Tony, the cheese being the _Actual Fucking Captain America_ , and the cat being Fury.

Still. Rhodey is going to be  _so_ jealous.

"He's just gone," Fury says smugly, eyeing Tony with the most glee Tony’s seen on him since, well, ever, "Situation got tight. Off you go, Stark. There's an evil Norse God in Vienna, chop chop."

Tony balks at the use of _chop chop_ , because that was  _uncalled for._

"Did you really just say  _chop chop_?" he starts incredulously, but breaks off at Fury's cold glare.

They stare at each other for a few long, tense, seconds before Tony jams his helmet on, growls through the distorted voice filters (childish but necessary, he tells himself) and takes off, taking great care to angle his repulsors in a way that will make them blast the air next to Fury's head. Such a reaction is probably exactly what Fury wanted, but Tony doesn't really care at this point.

The suit is on autopilot, so Tony amuses himself and hacks the SHIELD data-base, as well as the quinjet that's headed to Vienna. The data-base has nothing whatsoever, apart from the files that already exist and a note reading _Hello Stark_ in the only recent one, signed as _Coulson, xxx, P.S. my taser misses you_.

Tony figures one of the newbies or that archer guy - what was his name? Clive? - probably got him drunk.

He  _hopes_ that someone got him drunk. The alternative option is slightly terrifying, considering he's even worse than Tony when it comes to being a Cap fan. So he probably would sink to that level of petty.

* * *

It's dark in Europe.

He swoops in smoothly to see the screaming crowd of opera-goers being shepherded by a guy in weird clothes and a golden horned helmet. Well, a guy in weird clothes with a golden horned helmet times six. Beating Captain America's ass. Well, forcing him to kneel, which, is a bit old-school style. Power hungry maniacs are the worst, he decides, and ignores the way Obie's face pops up in his peripheral vision.

Having already over-ridden the Quinjet's system, Tony powers up his repulsors and delivers a direct hit to the weird guy who's supposed to be a god. He's doing an okay job of it, since what would usually kill only sends the man flying backwards. Horned-helmet-guy who looks a bit like a reindeer appears temporarily stunned but his eyes are glittering with malice and mischief. Tony tries not to shiver. He doesn't like that look, ever since he saw it on Ty's-

Never mind. He does not want to remember anything from that night. Or that week. Or that year. Or just anything about Tiberius Stone.

And then.

_And then._

His throat closes up, and he doesn't know what to say. Where are the smooth talk and the smarmy grin that he practised in the mirror age four and never forgot when he needs them?

 _Hey, I'm a fan and you knew my dad_ is an awful idea, probably because anything involving Howard is going to end up in one or more parties offended and one little man named Tony Stark  _this_ close to a mental breakdown.

 _Hey, I'm a big fan_ is okay, but basic. It’s stupid, but he wants to have an impact on his childhood hero, although it’s never going to come close to the impact that the _Actual Fucking Captain America_ has on him. He still has the comics in a box somewhere, along with his other childhood paraphinalia that he totally threw out ten years ago. A box under the billionare genius playboy philanthropist's bed? Nah. Well, technically, Howard burned some of his original collection, but that's  _really_ not the point.

Eventually, Tony gives up, and settles for simple, ignoring the way his stomach is twisting and his mouth is going dry, because damn it, that spandex is tight. And he'll probably only be able to speak in monosyllables around this guy.

He still can't quite wrap his head around the fact that the man is  _alive and right there._ The man that his own father never stopped looking for, gave up on his only son for.

Tony doesn't know if he should hate him for taking away Howard's love - but then again, it's Tony's fault for not being enough, for being damaged property from the start, for seeing fucking  _colours_ like a massive sap, for ending up just like Howard. At least he doesn't have any children to beat and then shove into closet-

He's beaten to an introduction.

"Mr. Stark."

The bold slash of cobalt blue drips across his vision like thick paint, viscous and painfully real, and Tony has to keep himself from reeling back, because he hasn't seen anything so vivid, so tangible, and so damn blue since… well, ever.

The blue pales into azure and forms itself into petals, delicately drifting in the wind. Something thorny twists itself around Tony's throat, cutting and breathtaking.

They glow with the blue of the arc reactor, stained with red, seeping across them and bursting into flames.

_White walls_

_Blue water_

Tony's throat closes up and suddenly he can't breathe, barely manages to choke out a reply of _Captain,_ because he's drowning in blue again, fractals twisting and dancing in front of him, even when he shuts his eyes.

* * *

 " _Big man in a suit of armour, take that off, what are you?"_

The words are shards of ice, harsh and serrated, and they run through him like knives.

It's all he can see. He's on autopilot, snapping out snippy retorts that are hollow, but he's angry, angry that _this_ is the man that Howard chose over him and there's ringing in his ears and ice advancing from all sides, dripping blood, red on blue. He barely notices the irony that dammit, Captain America's voice is red and blue, which is so cliche that a part of Tony wants to curl up and cry.  _Barely_ notices because he's too busy fighting his childhood hero. His fucking idol. The star-spangled man with a fucking plan. The all American boy who probably smells like apple pie and sees right through Tony.

It's funny but really not. The man who is supposed to be kind and generous and whatever sees right through Tony's bullshit, and doesn't find anything worth liking.

Well. That's where the phrase  _never meet you heroes_ comes from. 

_Har har de fucking har._

A dull whine twangs through his head and he rubs his forehead, and suddenly wishes that he hadn't taken his sunglasses off. Wishes that he didn't have to look straight into those eyes, that are blue-green like arctic ice in the harsh lights of the Helicarrier. Wishes that he didn't wear his false heart stitched onto sleeve. Or outside of his ribcage in a metal tube that crushes his lungs and glows blue.

Not like the blue of the ice, nor the blue of the ocean. Certainly not the blue-green-grey sea in Rogers' eyes and his voice of blood on blue roses.

Artificial blue. Because after all, he's only pretending to be a hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter might not be up for a long time, because of exams and other stuff that needs doing, but it _will_ be up at some point in the next two months. Have patience, and please stick around :)


	3. like neon inside the glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this just got...very tony-centric, and that's probably because endgame + being a tony stan = extreme love for tony stark. sorry not sorry for the slight melodrama.  
> anyway, many thanks to all ye of great faith in my sorry arse, especially those who left a kudo and a comment. Big thank you and lots of love to y'all, especially my irreplacable beta and bff, whose poetic lesbian ass is situated on @ north-char on tumblr. proceed onwards to nag me on @herethewillalwaysbedragons  
> please stick around, and the fruits of our labour can be repayed with love :)  
> any italians, i am so sorry if i have butchered your beautiful language. One year of learning it was not enough, it seems, and i used google translate. please notify me if something is grossly wrong. thank you.  
> also, i'm a logophile, so naturally tony is as well. i hope you are enlightened. so many words... *breathes in deeply*  
> words are amazing. i love them. the steve's POV basically turned into a 'how many pretty words can you fit into a paragraph'. you have been warned.  
> this is a bit cliche, but who cares? not me. steve is a total romantic, and so am i.  
> the last bit turned into a steve-has-feels-too thing.  
> also, i'm going to add random outsider (steve, mostly) sections, just to get a feel of what's happening outside of tony's head.  
> also, 'chrysalism' is a legitimate word. look it up.

_Water._

_It's water that way. Water as far as the eye can see. An endless shimmering ocean, navy melting into black into a cold white glint, like the edge of a blunted, serrated blade._

_He can't go there._

  
_He turns around, to go back down the path that he doesn't remember walking on. A path of gravel that leads to a house that holds a bruise-coloured cloud and shattered glass. But a house where lived a man who was everything. But there's someone standing there, and realisation slams into him, because that's Jarvis, and he smiles a terrible, awful smile with bloodied teeth and accusations in his eyes._

_No._

**_121691._ **

_The numbers screech around him like bats, diving in and around him, choking him with their wings of frigid blue, talons sharp, cutting into him._

_The blood drips, and he knows, knows that h_ _e can't go there either. He will never go there again._

_He pivots sharply, because this is a crossroads, and there, there's another ghost. Ty is smiling, teeth white and perfect, but his eyes are dead. The mere sight of Ty makes him want to retch, want to get away, want to bathe in bleach and scrub every single part of himself clean.Ty with his blond hair, and that dazzling smile that melts even the most hardened hearts. Melts them and then drinks them up through a straw. He kisses his next victim with the blood still smeared across his face, but they never seem to notice, because he's got them trapped._

_Not there either._

_The other road has Pepper, and Rhodey, and Happy. They've got matching apologetic smiles._

_"I'm sorry Tony," Pepper says, and her eyes glimmer sadly, "But it's better this way."_

_The blood drips spreads slowly through her white blouse._

_Behind them, the ocean glitters, its black shimmer inviting, curious in a macabre way, like carrying on with a horror story despite knowing that you'll get nightmares after, seeing the shadows lurking at every turn._

_He takes a step towards it, the waves whispering a lullaby of death into his ears. Step by step, breath by breath, beat by beat. The waves soothe him into nothingness. Their secrets lie deep under the blood-red foam, crimson on black, and they call to him, whispering fickle promises that'll be washed away by the pull of the tide that belongs to the uncaring moon and the cold, icy stars._

_Suddenly, he's in a white-walled room and the Avengers and Howard are standing behind the glass panel in one of the walls, and they're assessing him as blue water rushes up, and he doesn't care how he got there because he's too busy thrashing in the grip of the freezing water, arms going numb as he clutches the car battery closer to his chest-_

_The water closes over his head and above him is the wormhole, and it's pulling him in and then he's falling back, back into the black liquid that tastes like mud and sand and blood, back into words of serrated ice, back into the blue, back into pretending, back into frantic paddling in order to keep his head above the water as he spirals down, down, down-_

Tony jerks awake, gasping and retching for air, hacking to get water out of his lungs. His hand is shuddering so hard against the arc reactor that it's making a soft tapping noise, and he wrenches it away on instinct, wrapping his arms around himself instead, trying to control his shivering.

It doesn't work. All he gets is a pair of brittle hands and freezing arms, but no control. ( _Never control_.)

Tony runs a very much still shaking hand through his hair and tries to take a deep breath, but he _can't_. The arc reactor is pushing his lungs and heart out of his body, seizing painfully. and he suddenly remembers the raw grief and pain on Rogers' face after Tony made a particularly cruel jab. He had proceeded to twist the knife in deeper, and then the agony was walled with a fort of bitter rage.

God, he's an asshole, he _deserves_ this. Karma always catches up with him.

Tony vaguely remembers the feeling when they told him. When they asked him to identify the bodies. His heart had clenched and tried to rip itself apart, the room had spun out of control-

He had thought that he was having a well-timed heart attack. But it hadn't been.

 _Takotsubo cardiomyopathy_ , the doctors had told him. Broken heart syndrome. The feeling that your heart is shattering, seizing up, breaking apart, because of shock, trauma, and/or both.

Tony had thought it was far too sentimental a name for a medical condition, but he kept that to himself. 

They'd waved a hand at him and told him that he'd be fine, but Obie - _Stane_ , damnit - had given him _that_ look.

His heart has always been weak, Tony realises. The arc reactor didn't change anything. It just gave him physical pain, to keep his mental pain company. He almost snorts at that, that even his pain has a companion, while he drowns in a sea of isolation.

( _He knows better than to try to swim to shore, now_.)

He knows better than to call it broken heart syndrome, because there's no ignoring the irony of that, no overlooking the way it fits so perfectly with the blue monstrosity that's keeping his heart beating. 

It's sentimental, and God he hates sentiment. He wants to burn every memento from his childhood that he has, he wants to drown in cold numbers and equations but then he is terrified of suffocating, drowning in numbers and colours and a lack of emotion. He knows better than to be sentimental. 

After all, sentiment leads to broken hearts.

Ans he is Tony Stark, the man who has everything and nothing. He doesn't need a heart, have you seen what he stuck in his chest just to keep it beating? 

Well, he's got pieces of a heart, dregs. It burst and there's no one left to help him pick up the pieces. It's a shattered bottle of alcohol, contemptible, fit only to be ground under somebody else's boots. 

He sighs, dragging himself out of bed on shaky legs, murmuring for JARVIS to turn on the lights as he slips out into the corridor, and heads to the communal kitchen. He knows that there'll probably be someone else already there, someone who won't want his company but at the same time will probably be glad that they're not the only one with a past that comes back to curl cold fingers around their throat.

He stumbles down the corridor, and holy fuck, it's freezing. He briefly considers going back to get a hoodie, but he can't make himself turn around and go back to his room, where it's even colder and Pepper's side of the bed is empty. 

 _No. Don't think about Pepper._

The debacle with Killian had been the last straw, the Extremis, the suits, the nightmares, the 'team' wandering around like ghosts. Actually, who was he kidding? He had been too much and not enough at the same time, just like  _nothing_ is, conceptually, everything and, well, non-existent.

No time like three in the morning to get philosophical.

God, he wants a drink.

 _No. No, you are not touching the stuff._

Oh, right, he's quitting. Hot chocolate it is then.

To his surprise and bittersweet relief, the kitchen is dark and empty when he staggers in. The only sound the distant, ever present thrum of cars, way down below, neon lights playing, incandescent, across the room. Tony can't bring himself to switch the lamp on, instead watching the luminescence dancing like phosphenes on the walls.

There's a word for this, whatever this feeling is, he thinks dimly. There's always a word.  _Saudade_ in Portuguese, the love for someone long lost.  _Hiraeth_ in Welsh, the longing for a home you can never have.

But sometimes, words aren't enough.

In the true spirit of Good Omens -  _ineffable._

He snorts, but it brings a memory.

He remembers sitting late at night with Jarvis, cradling a coffee, silent tears running down his face and into the cuts that ran across his wrists, raw abrasions, stinging with the old mixture of iodine, its musty smell pervading the air, like something dead. Jarvis was reading that damn book out loud. Everything had hurt, phantoms of hands gripping his wrists pinning him down-

He doesn't want to go there. Damn Ty and his penchant for sticking around when you didn't want him.

Tony turns away from the window, opening the fridge with more force than necessary to pull out a carton of milk. He blindly pulls out a mug from the cupboard, ignoring the onslaught of memories -  _Anna standing at the stove, steam curling around her. Mama pushing the warm cup into his hands as he sits outside, gazing at the stars, the city of Ravenna sleeping around him as she too, whispers **vai a dormire, mio cuore.**_

He swallows back tears as he pours the milk, groping for the packet of cocoa-

"I didn't realise you were left handed."

Tony jumps, the milk spilling a little. He drops the cocoa and bites back a retort as he turns to see Rogers standing in the doorway, his ridiculously pale skin glowing a soft orange in the city lights. It registers somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind that the man is unfairly beautiful, but he pushes the thought away.

Rogers looks tired and haunted, eyes empty, bruised. He's not Captain America anymore, he's just a man, vulnerable, in pain. With a brooklyn accent,  _dammit_ , why is he thinking about that?

And just like that, Tony doesn't want to fight anymore.

He never wanted to fight, just wanted to get away. Push them away before they eventually realise that he's not good enough. After all, Natasha was right. Iron Man, yes. Tony Stark? Nope.

He just didn't expect Rogers to fight back.

"Hey Cap," he says, voice rough, hoarse, "Want some?"

He gestures at the milk and cocoa. Rogers shrugs heavily. His eyes are grey in the sodium lights. That shouldn't be right, because they  _should_ be black - if all light is absorbed, we see it as black.

But then again, the man  _should_ be dead. But he's not. Just a bit worse for wear.

Okay, maybe a lot worse for wear.

He watches the complex play of emotions on Rogers' face, from exhaustion to incredulity to surprise to a sort of grudging, wary acceptance.

That guy is  _stubborn._ And broken.

Just like Tony, in a way. Maybe that's why they fight. Because they're so similar, yet so different. But more different than similar. After all, no-one can be Tony Stark. He gets called the Merchant of Death for a reason, after all. He said he would stop producing weapons, but the suit is just another one. It's in his DNA; he can't cut it out of him, no matter how hard he tries.

"Wouldn't mind if you're offering, Stark." Rogers interrupts his internal monologue, voice scratchy and deeper than his usual, smooth baritone. Blue.

Howard's voice whispers in the back of his mind. He wonders if Rogers called Howard  _Stark_ or if they were best buds. Howard's the one who deserves first name basis, after all. He's worse than Tony - and that's saying a lot.

But he can't be reminded of his ancestry so bluntly, on a daily basis. He can't. Not now, not- not anymore.

"Tony." he blurts suddenly, surprising even himself, but  _fuck_ he can't take any more of this hostility, this useless fighting, and Rogers narrows his eyes at him, "I just- call me Tony."

Rogers shrugs again, but something like relief flickers across his face, and Tony sags as the tension leaves his body, just a little bit, even though the emotion is gone from Rogers' face as fast as it appeared.

"Then call me Steve."

Tony nods, and the man in the doorway moves silently across the room to sit in a chair, as if invited to breach an invisible barrier.

"I don't wanna fight anymore." Tony admits eventually, once he's heated up the milk and is stirring in the powder. Rogers' eyes flick up, obviously surprised. "I've- had enough of saying words that are like knives. We're bleeding out, Cap. For nothing. And for the record, I am sorry for everything I've done to you. You- you didn't deserve it."

It all comes out in a rush of words, but Rogers - Steve - doesn't seem to mind. Just looks at him knowingly.

 _The loneliest people are the kindest. The saddest people smile the brightest. The most damaged people are the wisest._

Tony feels like even more of an asshole as he watches those eyes, those lonely, sad,  _broken_ eyes flicker between the cocoa and him. God, how could he  _not have seen?_

"I guess so. And I am sorry too. You're not - not who I thought you were." Steve says, smiling sadly as Tony sits down opposite him, sliding the hot chocolate over to him, "Thanks."

They sit in silence, but this time, it's not uncomfortable or hostile, just neutral. Maybe even-

No, he shouldn't go there. He'll mess it up, hurt this man. It is inevitable.

Tony cradles his mug, warmth seeping slowly into his bones as he sips the sweet drink. He watches the city and blinks back the tears, because there's no water in his lungs, no glass in his cheek, no belt across his back. But there's no hand on his shoulder, no fingers combing through his hair, no warm furry body lying across his feet, no stars above him, no warm amber cloud of sound to lull him to sleep.

He's still lost at sea, but maybe, maybe this time, the lighthouse beaming from the land is not an illusion.

* * *

* * *

 Steve doesn't quite know how to react when he sees Stark standing in the kitchen.

He had just woken from a nightmare of blood and ice, and was stumbling to the kitchen to get himself something warm to drink when he sees  _Stark_  of all people, just standing there. He's shivering, in a pair of boxers and a tank top, fingers flexing as goosebumps run up and down his arms. The glow of the city brings out every single gaunt feature in him, the sharp ridges of his cheekbones, the bags under his eyes, the tense lines of his muscles, the rough stubble, the way the blood is crusting on his lip where he has bitten it raw without noticing  _again_ , the way the top hangs just a bit loose even though Steve knows that it fit him far too snugly before. The arc reactor shines thinly underneath it. He looks beaten, his eyes liquid and black under the neon lights. A single tear gathers and drips down, the fluorescence from outside making it shine like a burning trail. Stark wipes it away, face contorting briefly, eyes flickering and glazing over as he yanks the fridge door open with far too much force, expression twisting, somewhere between miserable and disgusted and bitter.

This is the man behind the masks, Steve realises. The one who doesn't smile, doesn't project self-confidence and charisma. He's just a scared, lonely human, all the defensive barriers down.

Stark pulls out a carton of milk, checking it for a label, and then sets it on the counter. Then, standing up on his tip-toes, he stretches, cat-like, to fish something out of the cupboard, producing a packet of cocoa after a few seconds of rustling. It goes on the counter next to the milk, and he then gropes for a mug.

Steve watches, not quite ready to announce himself and reveal that he's been standing and watching like a damn creep for the past few minutes, as Stark picks up the carton of milk in his left hand - and since when is Stark left-handed?

He must have asked that out loud, because Stark jerks, eyes widening almost comically as he spills some of the milk and hisses under his breath. He looks like a deer caught in headlights as his gaze settles on Steve, and Steve feels something in his chest tighten as Stark's eyes immediately blank out, his walls coming up instantly. But then, they recede, and all that is left is exhaustion.

His voice is hoarse and ragged, like the broken glass he is, as he asks Steve if he wants any hot chocolate.

Steve can't say no, and a brief flash of surprise flicks across Stark's face, but then he blurts out his name.

 _Just Tony._

It fills Steve with an emotion he can't quite put a finger on as he tells Stark - Tony - to call him Steve, watching relief spill out across Tony's face.   
  
Steve feels like the universe is made of glass, right at that moment, when a small smile settles on Stark's -  _Tony's_  - face. Steve smiles awkwardly back, scared of breaking the moment and scared of what happens if he keeps going. So far, on the bad nights, he's only occasionally seen Natasha, who just looks at him and understands the way only few people do. Sometimes, they sit in the kitchen together, reading their respective books, sharing a silent camaraderie.   
  
Not to discredit Natasha, whose simple presence can bring him back from the edge sometimes, but this night seems special to Steve, like something incredibly important is happening, something he really, really doesn't want to mess up.   
  
Steve crosses the room and sits down in the chair, silent as Tony ducks his head, shuffling a bit to procure another mug from the cupboard. It's old, by the looks of it, and has Roma spelled in looping letters down the side. Tony doesn't notice, but Steve knows a loved mug when he sees one, remembers the well-worn handles of the mugs his mother used to put her special soup in for him to drink whenever he got sick, back - well. He shouldn't think about that right now, not when he's here, not when he and Tony are finally having a moment when they're not at each other's throats, not after everything else that he's relived tonight.   
  
But it will come later. It always does.

But now? Now, Tony's murmuring a soft melody, probably without even realising it and Steve gets an ache deep in his chest, the one he gets when he wants to ask a thousand questions. He gets the feeling, though, that even after a thousand questions, even after a million, he still wouldn't really know Tony Stark.   
  
That thought makes him sadder than it should. Because after all, they've wasted a year ripping each other apart, and yet he still knows these...little details about Tony. It's weird, but in a good way.

But something deep inside him wants to get to know this man, know why he pushes everyone away, why he doesn't let anyone see who he really is, why he behaves like a jerk and a bully when he's a hero and a kind man. Why he drives Steve up the wall, why Steve  _lets_  Tony antagonise him. Wants to know how he works, how he feels.

But most of all, he wants to know who Tony Stark really is.

"I don't wanna fight anymore." Tony says suddenly, the spoon clinking softly against the side of one of the mugs as he stirs the hot chocolate "I've- had enough of saying words that are like knives. We're bleeding out, Cap. For nothing. And for the record, I am sorry for everything I've done to you. You- you didn't deserve it."

Steve checks his surprise, looking up to see Tony staring intently at the two mugs.

"I guess so. And I am sorry too. You're not - not who I thought you were." Steve admits finally, managing not to make his words waver. He tries not to think about the way the city lights make Tony's hair light up into an orange-gold halo as Tony looks at him, something familiar and achingly sad etched into the lines of his face.

Tony sits down next to him at the kitchen table, resolutely staring at the cup in his hands, cradling it with long, calloused fingers. He's still shivering, just a bit, and a part of Steve wants to hug him and never let go, wrap him in blankets and keep him safe, keep him from falling apart. But the way Tony looked at him, how it struck a long-buried chord in his own heart, that was too close to home. Too close for comfort. He couldn't get involved with Tony Stark, not with the way he seems to see right through him, and especially not with Steve's... tendency to misinterpret things.

He knows it's legal now, but it's hard to get rid of a lifelong fear. He's half-convinced it's a lie, a test Fury created to try to catch him out, as if rumours from a select circle of military personnel from the 1940s could make its way into SHIELD's database. Still, he's careful. Always so careful. Sometimes he wonders what would happen if he stopped being so careful, but then he slaps himself, and thinks of the fear on Peggy's face when she proposed the arrangement to him. How the world would think of her, if they knew. She's already been erased from history textbooks enough.

Instead, he watches the lights, neon trapped inside glass, and his hands itch to get it down on paper, capture this moment, the steam from the hot chocolate blooming into impossible shapes, spirals and fractals and delicate swirls, the glow setting them aflame. The white lights glitter just slightly, the orange turns the steam into something he can't describe, effervescence, a  _kalopsia_. A paroxysm of... _something_  explodes inside his chest, leaving a susurrus of bittersweet pain.

It's one of those moments when he's floating above everything else, in a world of his own, looking down at everything around him from a high, cloudy place. Everything fades away, veiled, aquiver. The world intertwines with itself, his scrawny teenage body merging with his post-serum one, the firm set of the general's mouths matching the harsh glint in Fury's one eye, Bucky's smirk translating into Clint's shit-eating grin, the way Peggy's eyes softened whenever they were alone bleeding into Natasha teaching him to match her slow, even breaths on his worst nights. He can see everything. He can see a man with a broken heart and a crown of jewelled thorns, a man with liquid eyes that can't lie but instead smelts his words into blades.

Steve's living a dream, inside a chrysalism, and he's just waiting the glass to break and the gunfire to start.


	4. take me back to that big sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> clothes sharing is my favourite trope by a couple of miles, so :)  
> also sorry about the POV switch  
> ALSO i added a relatively crucial segment into the first chapter, which will help make a part of this chapter, and all future chapters, make sense, so i recommend that you go back and find it :)  
> once again, thanks to my beta, and to you all.  
> just an FYI, i have my native language GCSEs and a science test coming up, so the next few chapters may be slower than usual in the making. but they're in here *taps side of head*

Life, Tony decides, sucks. And not in the fun way.  JARVIS is being bitchy today, probably because he's based off Tony's brain waves and is always tetchy and sarcastic. But maybe also because Tony has been in the workshop for... Actually, he doesn't know. That  _should_  be worrying, but the amount of times that this has happened before... Anyway. He knows that someone will get him at the seventy-two hour mark. Probably. He usually falls asleep a bit before that and ends up either dragged out hissing and screaming - which is a blow to a dignity that he thought was long gone - or drooling on the schematics. Or something. This totally hasn't happened an unhealthy amount of times before, no siree.

The music is getting far too loud, and suddenly Tony has had enough of metal and heavy rock, which he used to think was impossible. (He used to think people having too much of him was impossible, too, but look where that got him.)

"JARVIS," he snaps, "Music off."

The silence rings in his ears. He almost misses the racket of synths and distorted guitar strings.

No, he doesn't miss it, not at all, it's just the only music that he's never seen the colours of, the only music that's incapable of bringing back vivid memories of spinning fractals of glowing light, pulsing clouds of paint staining his vision. But that's all they are. Memories. 

The real colours were swept away within a cold, cold blue (on that night, the one he doesn't think about, not ever). He aches for them, aches for them with a need he didn't know he had. Something in his chest dislodged before the arc reactor was even a spark between synapses in his brain. Or maybe it was when Howard started slicing grotesque words into his skull, their remnants echoing again and again, the scars never quite healing. 

To think that a man who died over two decades ago has this much hold over him. It's pathetic.

But then again,  _he's_  pathetic. He built a suit of armour to protect himself from the world, when really, it's just protecting the world from Tony Stark, who's loud and abrasive and only good for consulting (and even that's a stretch). 

Really, they should be scared of what  _he_  might do. If Tony put his mind to it, why, who could stop him from doing whatever he wants? If someone flicks that switch in his brain? Nothing could stop him. Not even that faceless man with a deep blue voice from his childhood, the one who said  _I'm not sad, because I know that one day, you will be a hero._ What was his name again? The name of his companion with the scared brown eyes? Captain Stefan and Doctor... Doctor His-Surname-Begins-With-a-P-and-Reminds-Tony-of-Pepper. Something like that.

Tony shudders, and shoves the thought firmly out of his mind. Sleep deprivation does weird shit to his brain. He should've gone to sleep hours ago. 

But... the projects are important. The SHIELD issue gear the team still have? It's nauseating. It's clear that Steve absolutely despises his uniform, although he might put on a smile and pretend like it's okay (don't ask Tony how he can tell between Steve's real and fake smiles) with its spandex and bright colours (who the fuck thought that that would be a good idea? Oh right, the PR team. Led by Coulson. Who's dead. Was dead, Fury's a bastard, what else is new?). Bruce needs pants that don't fall off of him when he goes back to human size, although he hasn't flashed everyone with his huge green junk yet, which is a blessing. Natasha could do with weapons that aren't just her thighs (privately, Tony thinks she'll be just fine, but she's still a fallible human like the rest of them, despite her repeated efforts to convince him to the contrary) and Clint always needs new arrows that to "do really cool shit, man. Like, imagine if they were sticky? Or they burst into flames when they hit the bad guys!"-

"Captain Rogers is requesting access to the workshop, sir."

Tony hisses at JARVIS's sudden voice, jerking around to face the glass, and sure enough, Steve's there. He looks worried, and he's clutching a plate of sandwiches, shifting nervously from foot to foot. As soon as his eyes meet Tony's, however, he's in Cap mode. Back straight, completely stiff, face a blank mask of determination. His outline is a bit blurry though, and Tony hastily rips off his glasses, feeling the tips of his ears burn slightly.

Steve's cheek dimples the tiniest bit, before he schools back his face into a disapproving expression. His eyes are electric, sparking, and obviously ticked off; Tony resists the urge to flinch. 

Tony - Tony wants to  _sleep_. The sight of food makes his stomach churn, but he figures that the last thing he needs to deal with is either one of Steve's Morality Speeches™ or his equally distinctive (and lethally effective) puppy eyes. Or Tony's not-so-platonic feelings for the poor Captain, but he shoves that particular tidbit into the steel reinforced box in the back of his mind he shoves everything particularly damning into. There. He doesn't want to - can't - deal with them right now. Or ever.

"I apologise for startling -"

"Let him in, J."

There's a pause before the door glides open, which Tony knows means JARVIS is ticked off at Tony for interrupting him, but he doesn't want to deal with that right now. Steve strides in, wholly unaware of the passive-aggressive warfare that JARVIS and Tony are apparently engaging in. Tony doesn't have the energy for this, damnit. But Steve's bristling, the anger shunting out the worry in his eyes, and Tony steels himself for the inevitable conflict. 

"Three days," Steve bites out, slamming down the plate in front of Tony, "In which you haven't eaten or slept  _at all_ , Stark." 

"Ooh, we using last names now, huh? Must be serious," Tony tries for a joke, but the words come out slurred. A vein pops out in Steve's forehead, and Tony thinks over his next words, trying to do damage control. "But sleep sounds nice."

Everything's gone hazy, thick, like syrup. Sugar, glucose, whatever. C6H12O6. Is he resorting to chemistry now? He needs coffee. Wait, no, caffeine is a drug, it will not help with his cardiovascular health, wasn't he worried about that earlier? 

Steve looks alarmed, the anger melting away into concern. Ah. He must've said that out loud, then. Wherefore art thou, brain-to-mouth filter? Tony snickers. 

"I think you should sleep," Steve manages, eyebrows furrowing together, and  _there's_  the puppy eyes. And the pout. Tony was getting worried he'd miss them. Not that he likes them, just that it's an integral part of the experience that is being Told Off by Captain America, The All-American Paragon of Virtue and Morality. 

Steve looks helpless. "I would argue that I don't pout, but Tony, you look like a dead man walking, you have to -"

"It's okay," Tony replies, and tries to focus on the schematics, "Coffee, then I can finish this."

He squints at the screen, groping blindly for his glasses, but there's a warm hand on his, halting the motion.

"Sleep, Tony," Steve says firmly, and starts pushing him out of the room. Tony struggles, and, huffing irritatedly (Tony likes to think there's a touch of fondness in there), Steve hoists him up. Tony shrieks, and clings to Steve's chest. 

Steve's warm, and surprisingly snuggly, so Tony doesn't mind. Even when Steve chuckles, the sound reverberating through his chest. Oh. His brain-to-mouth filter really has just up and left him, hasn't it?

(But it's warm, and he's safe, and he doesn't care, even when the arms around him tighten just a little, even when he knows that the subtle scent of sandalwood and cedar and pine will haunt his dreams. If he ignores how fleeting, how impermanent it all is, Tony can almost relax. Almost.)

The arms around him unwind, and the mattress is soft, but it's cold and isolated.

Oh, the bed, right. That's where people sleep. 

He hums absently when he hears his name, then the words swim into focus.

"... why were you working on our gear?"

Tony sits up abruptly, confused by the question, because, okay, yes, he may be a genius but the answer is still pretty obvious. Steve's face betrays only mild curiosity - Tony can't decide if he genuinely doesn't know or if he's testing Tony. To test the waters, see if he should leave sooner rather than later. 

"To keep you safe." Tony states matter-of-factly, raising an eyebrow at Steve in question. 

A myriad of expressions run across Steve's face, too fast for Tony to track them, finally settling on guilt. Oh no, Steve can't be guilty, then he mopes around and sulks and doesn't talk to anyone. Tony reaches up to try to smooth Steve's furrowed brow. Come on, Steve, don't be sad -

"Good night, Tony," Steve murmurs finally, interrupting Tony's what he now realises are out-loud words. Fuck. Steve turns around and strides out, brow still furrowed despite Tony's best efforts, leaving his hand outstretched. 

As he drifts off, Tony can't help but wonder what he's done wrong this time.

* * *

 

 He's back in the workshop by midnight after Howard Stark shakes him awake yet again. JARVIS tells him that he only got a measly three hours of sleep, but it's okay. Tony's dealt with worse.  
  
The team's new gear is well under way, JARVIS reporting that the synthesis of Tony's new composite materials is going as predicted. Tony Stark: 1. Rest of the World: 0.  
  
Steve's sandwiches are amazing, he notes absently as he chews on them. The future safety of the team depends on whether or not Tony works, and one of the factors that contributes to that is correct sustenance, along with a few litres of coffee and not enough sleep. Or maybe a tub of water. He's always been hypercompetent under pressure.  
  
He's just about to pick up the stupid (sacred) mug of coffee, the special one that Bruce gave him ( _Engineer, noun., a person who gets excited about things that nobody else cares about_ ), when he notices that the sleeves of his hoodie are trailing over his hands, covering them completely. And it doesn't smell like coffee and smoke and hot metal. Instead, he catches a trace of sandalwood aftershave and something like cedar cologne.  
  
Steve. He's wearing Steve's hoodie.  
  
The thought fills him with a soft warmth, and he knows that he should give this back, but it's night and he's pretty sure Steve owns a set of pyjamas. It's fine.   
  
He'll just take it back in the morning.

* * *

* * *

Steve doesn't quite know how to react when Tony stumbles into the kitchen at eight in the morning, with grease smudged over his cheek, obviously fresh out of the workshop (so much for carrying him to bed) and wearing a hoodie that is obviously several sizes too big for him. Steve narrows his eyes, the hoodie strangely familiar.   
  
His immediate impulse is to bundle the man up in his arms and never let go. No, not like that, Steve admonishes himself, it just reminds Steve of the puppies at the shelter. Tony's completely swamped in it, the sleeves far too long for him as he rubs his face absently. The cuff comes away blackened, just as Steve's heart is melting into a puddle of goo.  
  
Even Natasha makes a soft noise next to him, a smirk settling on her mouth.  
  
Then it hits him.  
  
That's  _Steve's_  hoodie.  
  
Tony is wearing Steve's hoodie.  
  
It shouldn't matter. Natasha owns at least one item of clothing from each of them anyway (not that anyone's complaining, she can rock practically anything, or at least shut up any otherwise-talkative people with a quirk of her eyebrow). Her collection started out with one of Bruce's distasteful purple shirts, then one of Clint's jumpers. After that came a pair of Thor's flannel pants, then Steve's dress shirt, and finally a ratty tank top that belonged to Tony at some point, and to everyone's secret amusement, it fit her perfectly, which brings him right back to where he started - Tony is absolutely tiny in Steve's hoodie. He can't quite get over that.  
  
Tony's clutching yet another member of his hoard of various silly engineering mugs, (this one reading  _instant engineer: just add coffee_ ). It's yet another one of Tony's quirks -  he collects mugs. Most of them are gag gifts with unknown origins (and Steve would like it to stay that way), others are obviously treasured relics, probably from his childhood.   
  
Not that Steve has been actively watching, he just - notices things. Former soldier, you know the drill. Really, it isn't anything personal, he does it with all of his team.   
  
He hides his smile as Tony downs his freshly procured coffee. He hoists himself up onto the counter next to the coffee machine, the hoodie draping itself over his thighs. As they watch, Tony almost reboots, his eyes focusing on the coffee machine with a deadly intent.  
  
"Nice hoodie, Stark," Clint calls as he wanders in, and Tony glares at him.  
  
"Eat your Cheerios, bird brain," he snaps, burrowing himself further into the material and hissing, "It's warm, and I'm not sharing."  
  
"Not sharing the hoodie or Steve?" Clint asks with a leer as he jumps onto the counter next to Tony to reach the cereal, then walking on it to fetch a spoon before sitting down next to Tony, legs swinging. 

"Oh, am I an it now?" Steve asks, mock frowning. 

Tony turns to Steve, eyes widening, as if he hadn't noticed Steve earlier. "Aw, don't pout, I'll give it back."

Steve makes a real frown at that. He doesn't  _pout_. 

Tony starts peeling the hoodie off, eyes twinkling amusedly at Steve's expression. 

"Keep it," Steve blurts.

Tony peers at him inquisitively from between the folds of grey material.

"You sure?" he asks, squinting. "Is it because I spilled motor oil on it? I'll wash it, I'm sure I can find some detergent that'll get it out-"

His words are slightly muffled as he tugs it back down over his head, twisting around to inspect the back of the hoodie. His hair is sticking out, presumably from the static electricity, and Clint coos at him.

"Tiny Tony," he sing-songs, "Adorable little baby Tony."

The petulant glare he receives only makes him coo even more. Steve snorts, and Natasha's lips curl up into a tiny smile. Tony spins around to stare at them, horrified, pressing his hand to his heart and mock-fainting. 

"Traitors! Traitors! All of you!" Tony cries. 

It occurs to Steve that he's fond of these people. Very fond. 

Too fond. Steve looks around, at his bright, shiny world, and wonders if this one will disappear too. If he can handle it, if it happens again. How he can prepare. His throat closes up, and he starts blinking rapidly. Tony shoots him a worried look, in the middle of his dramatic act. 

"Aw, is tiny Tony throwing a tantrum?" Natasha teases, red hair coming free of its messy bun, ignorant of Steve's realisation. Or maybe she's trying to distract him from his suddenly dark internal thoughts. 

(He appreciates it. Super-spies can be surprisingly tactful sometimes.)

"But seriously," Tony starts again, looking apologetically at Steve, "I'll-"

"Keep it," Steve states firmly. If he's started down this road, might as well stick to it. Natasha raises her eyebrows at him silently, and Steve ignores her. His teammates can think whatever they want. It's just a hoodie, after all. "Since I always wondered what you looked like as a baby." Steve can't resist the barb. 

Tony squawks, and starts smacking him with the hoodie as Clint and Natasha look on, laughing at Steve's plight. Maybe he'll reconsider his fond thoughts of them. 


	5. the boy who fell into the sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is set in late 2013, since i'm completely ignoring everything post IM 3 (aggressively sweeps CA:TWS, AoU, CA:CW, IW and Endgame under the rug and sets them on fire).  
> ...and the time travel shenanigans have started *cheers*  
> tw for panic attacks and child abuse induced trauma. and for certain persons being a dick.

Tony wakes up to the clanging of the Avengers alarm.

His cheek is pressed into the workbench, and the first thing he sees is a massive coffee stain right under his nose. It looks a bit like New Zealand. Or maybe some other weird island country. Whatever, he'll probably clean it up later. O that note, he needs to wash his mugs. Most of them have some form of mould in them. Maybe the mould will start colonising, and take over that coffee stain-

But that's not the point. He's diverging, so many problems, always problems, no, not _problems,_ they're just  _brain food_ , but anyway, the main one _right now_ is that he's been woken up at ass-o'clock in the morning because some super-villain has decided that the dead of night is the best time to get his ass handed to him by a bunch of cranky superheroes.

Crankiness makes everyone twice as bitchy. Even Steve.  _Especially_ Steve, who's sarcastic and a troll even on a good day.

But now is not the time to talk about Steve. 

He's diverging. Again.

_Fuck._

On the bright side, at least it's not a Thursday. Thursdays are movie nights, and Thor hates getting interrupted halfway through his "Midgardian Tales" or whatever he calls them. Actually, no, why isn't it a Thurday? It would rile Thor up and it'd be over that much more quickly. He's just swing Mjolnir and boom, lightning, then  Then, they could all go back to making fun of Clint's movie choices, or, in Tony's case, sleeping.

Sleeping sounds really, really nice. Really, really, blissfully-

Tony heaves a sigh and pushes himself up. All he wants to do is sleep. Sleep, design something, pass out, that's his life, along with a healthy sprinkling of chewings-out by Steve.

Life is a donut, as Clint would say. "A stripper shaped donut with thong sprinkles."

Or, in Tony's case, an engineering-shaped donut with Steve-sprinkles.

He cuts that thought off. Sleep deprivation turns his brain into mush, but blackout engineering is fun.

And guess what else is _really_ fun?

Getting up in the middle of the night to fight some dumb-ass wannabe.

Tony's half-way across the room already, autopilot having kicked in just barely after he woke up, bracelets fastened securely on his wrists. He trudges toward the door, which flies open to reveal Steve, suited up and looking haggard, with deep bags under his eyes. Steve looks at him, and frowns.

"What's with the eye bags? Your age finally catch up to you, old man?" Tony says, trying to draw Steve's attention from his own undoubtedly horrific appearance. He surreptitiously steps to the side to block Steve's view of the workbench, but the taller man just glares, his eyes slightly glazed from sleep.

It's slightly adorable-

"Portal," he barks, like Tony hadn't even said anything, "Over Central Park. Bruce says it's got some funny readings."

Tony manages a non-committal grunt, tapping the bracelets so that the suit snaps onto him, JARVIS announcing that all the systems are calibrating, blah blah blah. He sort of wants to crawl into a nuclear bunker and hide there after stealing Clint's secret stash of tinned food - what the fuck did that guy  _do_ to his poor taste buds? - at the mention of portals, but he'll be fine, he probably won't freak out and freeze in the middle of the fight, or have a panic attack, or fuck things up even more than he usually does. Besides, Steve's staring at him with an even more worried expression than before; it's not a particularly big secret that Tony... hosts a great dislike of portals. Ugh, he can practically see the urge to mother-hen in Steve's eyes.

"I'll be fine," Tony says tiredly as soon as Steve opens his mouth, and then waves off any further attempt at conversation by trooping off towards the elevator.

Steve huffs, and turns toward the other one, because right, he needs to get his precious bike or whatever. It would be faster just to carry him there, no need to waste diesel.

The idea smacks Tony in the face. He freezes, and turns to look at Steve, who stares back in panic, anticipating bad news.

"Want a lift?" Tony blurts out. "I mean, in the suit, since it'll be faster than your bike."

"You don't have to," Steve sputters, but his face is hopeful, "I gotta weigh at least two hundred and thirty pounds-"

Tony shakes his head, unable to resist indulging the childlike joy that Steve always displays at the prospect of flying.

"It's no problem," he says, "As long as you don't mind the cold, or the possibility of falling from a bit higher in the air than you usually do."

Steve's expression turns, from hesitant hope to bright, unadulterated glee. It makes Tony's chest tighten, and not just because of the arc reactor.

Nope, no, nopity nope nope, sign Tony up for the nope train because he's never getting off. He's not going to confront those feelings now. Or ever.

"Are you sure?" Steve asks, a little breathless, excitement tinging his tone.

"Absolutely. I don't call you Winghead for nothing."

Steve grins, a beaming smile that stretches from ear to ear - it's kind of adorable, really. His eyes are so bright, so blue, and they're twinkling-

"Actually," he corrects, eyes sparkling as he beams at Tony, "It's because of the costume, Shellhead."

"I know that," Tony says, and oh, Steve's laughing, a loud cackle that shouldn't be endearing in any way but somehow is.

Tony realises, suddenly, that he's utterly smitten.

Big surprise there. It'll all backfire eventually. The clock's counting down.

_Tick tock._

The lift dings open, and Tony drags a still-chuckling Steve in behind him. He makes stupid faces at Steve, which just make him laugh more, and by the time they stumble out onto the roof, even Tony's a giggling mess.

Now, for the awkward part, which Tony hadn't planned for, hadn't even thought about. He is really stupid sometimes, for a so-called genius.

"You have to wrap your arms around me," Tony mumbles, slightly sheepish, but Steve just does as he instructs. Tony has to wonder if it's Steve's naïveté showing, or that he's just _that_ deep in the friend-zone.

He hopes that super-soldiers can't hear heartbeats through an inch of metal, because that would be very embarrassing - Tony's pretty sure that his heart is going to leap out of his chest in the next few seconds. It's not exactly his fault - well, it is, but whatever - that he's holding his crush in a very intimate way, but at the same time it's completely platonic.

Only Tony Stark could manage that.

He resists the incredibly strong urge to scream and whack his head against something nice and solid. Like Steve's abs-

_No._

But Steve's face is mere inches away from his, his breath ghosting over the faceplate, just enough so that the sensors pick it up, and he's staring straight into the eye-slits of the armour like he can see into Tony's eyes. His expression is a mixture of apprehension and excitement.

"You ready?" Tony asks.

Steve nods.

They take off.

Steve whoops, making Tony clutch him tighter on instinct, even though he knows that, unless his systems fail, which they won't, Steve will not hit the ground. The _Icarus Protocol_ is something that the team has practised long and hard, due to their collective tendency to either fall out of buildings, high windows, or massive portals in the sky.

But for now, all he can concentrate on is the sheer, unadulterated joy on Steve's face, his grin facing the wind. And Tony wishes - wishes that he can have this, whatever this is, for just a little while longer.

The moment is over almost as soon as it started - Steve gives a final cheer as they come in for landing. Bruce smiles a small smile at Steve, then raises his eyebrows slightly to Tony. Tony's suddenly glad that the suit's covering his face. He looks around, surveying their surroundings, and that's when he notices it.

The massive, warping portal.

On one hand, it's not much like the one at the Battle of New York. For starters, it's much higher, way up above the stratosphere. And it's bright green, rather than blue - maybe a different type of portal?

Well, there aren't any aliens pouring out of it, so at least he doesn't have to worry about that.

The portal is also strangely familiar, like a snapshot from his childhood. Which isn't making Tony feel any better.

Bruce shivers in the sharp gusts of wind that signify Thor's imminent arrival, attention diverted from doubting Tony's (very pure!) intentions. He hurries over, gnawing on a fingernail. Steve gently sets Bruce's hand back down by his side. Tony contemplates chewing his fingernails for a moment, then remembers they're encased in metal. Maybe later.

"I don't know what it is," Bruce says, raising his voice just slightly as Thor drops down behind him.

"I do," the Norse god booms, clapping a heavy hand down on Bruce's shoulder, making him wince, "I fear that it is a gateway into a past."

"So it's magic," Tony swears colourfully. Steve turns to look at him, a small smile twitching on his face.

"Aye," Thor answers, "But it was wielded by a Midgardian. I fear that is answer enough, for you."

Tony wants to sob, because he hates magic, with every fibre of his being. And he especially hates people who use it. Well, Thor not included, but that's only because he doesn't shove it in his face, just beats up bad guys and asks for takeout after. All things considered, Thor is definitely Tony's kind of person. Then again, Thor is probably everyone's kind of person.

"I'll take a look at it," Tony says, "JARVIS'll need to scan it, so I need to be as close as possible."

He takes off before any of them can reply, cursing under his breath.

He hovers a safe distance away, since JARVIS is reporting energy fluctuation and radiation - if he gets within a certain distance, the suit will fail. Iron Man, splat.

"Sir, there appears to be foreign object within the structure." JARVIS tells him crisply, and Tony squints, drifting closer, and there's a strange shadow falling rapidly-

He reacts before JARVIS can yell at him that there's a fucking human flying out of a huge green hole in the sky, before he can tell Tony that the suit is going to fail, because what's the point of Iron Man if he can't help someone in danger?

Except that person is clutching a battered cardboard box that was burned in 1989. And that person has a familiar, cruel ring on his finger that makes Tony's cheek throb in memory.

Howard Stark.

It's too late to react, to do anything about it, because the suit is wrapped safely around him, and they're both in free fall.

This time, the future will protect the past.

The HUD is screaming numbers at him, flashing, scrolling data and red alarms.

The numbers are beginning to bleed out colours, a cacophony of emperor purples, arctic blues, deep greens, and a particular tint of deathly pale lilac, strewn like dying flowers across the HUD. He can feel the panic rising as the colours drip down slowly, their vibrance morphing into something muddy and unidentifiable.

He gulps down air.

_Calm down, Howard's not here, he's dead-_

Except he's not dead, he's right there in Tony's arms, and he could drop him, but what does it matter? He'll probably be a red and gold stain on the pavement in a few seconds-

But instead of pavement he feels the slap across his face, the force of it sending him spinning into the desk, the fury, ugly grey-green words blooming like blood in water, crimson, real colour dripping down his cheek, the pain-

_My son is messed up, Maria, he's fucking crazy, he's hearing colours - what normal kid does that?_

Jarvis's soothing tone floats out on top, the reddish tinge of freshly brewed tea mixing with Mama's vanilla-lavender. He stiffens, tries to hone in on the bursts of colour. They slip past him, and all he can see is the muted sepia of his own short breaths.

The words _Protocol Icarus_ sear violet and gold into his eyes, and he briefly thinks system overload, because everything is too loud, too much, too vibrant, all the colours of the rainbow piling up and making him go blind.

A streak of blue cobalt cuts across his vision, someone's yelling his name, so blue, so beautiful it hurts. Tony closes his eyes, or tries to.

The ethereal blue hangs in the darkness, shimmering, fizzing crimson sparks.

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

The armour is scattered across the alley like fallen leaves, like blood, and, in the middle of it all, sits a child.

Well, he's not a child, Steve knows. It's Tony, but he's curled up in a ball, shaking, and the sight makes Steve's heart clench painfully. Beside him lies a man, a man who's features are familiar but who's face isn't.

But that doesn't matter, because although Tony appears to be unharmed physically, being so close to the portal could have triggered a flashback, or God only knows what else could have happened.

The past few minutes were awful for Steve, and for everyone else as well. Seeing Tony's agitation at the sight of the portal, obvious even in the armour, watching as he hovered far too close to it, and then just standing, completely helpless, able only to scream Tony's name as he hurtled towards the ground, even as Thor swung his hammer, preparing to catch him and the man Tony had saved.

They were too slow.

For a second, Steve thought that it was all over. Done. Tony's name froze on his lips as his heart stuttered to a halt and then leapt out of his chest as he screamed at the other Avengers to run,  _run_ before it was too late-

And now it's this.

The man stirs groggily, and Steve rips his eyes off Tony to stare at him. He's still rooted to the spot, but Bruce and Thor are hovering a few feet away from Tony because he could be having a panic attack and the last thing they need is for him to lash out.

The man, however, is a different story. He could be  _anyone_.

His hair is white, face wrinkled, but achingly  _familiar_ in a way that Steve can't quite put his finger on. The man reminds him of Tony, in terms of the facial structure, but he certainly isn't Tony from the future. He's dressed in a suit, impeccable, grey with a white dress shirt and red tie, a bit like a politician. His general air is just...off, and even from a good few metres away, Steve can smell the reek of expensive alcohol.

It fills Steve with disgust, just like the feeling he had had on the Helicarrier, when Tony's eyes were boring into his, blank and empty under the barriers he had thrown up-

The answer hits him like a ton of bricks.

That's Howard Stark.

_Howard Stark._

Then Tony whimpers, and Steve forgets everything.

He crosses the invisible line, crouching in front of the smaller man, and forces down his own rising panic.

Tony is curled up protectively around a box that definitely wasn't there when they set out, so it must be something that had come with Howard. His eyes are wide open, staring at something that only he could see, and the  _fear_ in them is so raw, so powerful, that it can only be a child's blind terror. His lips are bloodless and moving around a silent prayer, a mantra. His face is bone-white, pale like he's seen a ghost. In a way, he has.

"Tony," Steve says softly.

The dark-haired man's eyes snap up to him, and Steve reels back at the pure fear, the guilt, the vulnerability, all mixed into a pair of eyes. They are black in the sodium lights, liquid. Terrified and haunted. 

It's something that could almost be straight out of a horror film.

He jerks back out of the awful daze when Tony whispers something, again and again.

"Please," his voice is like broken glass, shattered and hoarse, "Please. Don't. I won't do it again, please."

"Tony," Steve tries again, reaching forward to clasp Tony's shoulder-

His jaw explodes in pain just as Tony lashes out, screaming, backing away, clutching the box to his chest.

" _NO!"_ he sobs, and then his face clears, fear and guilt turning into shame and horror.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, backing away, "I am so sorry-"

"It's okay," Steve says, reaching out, but Tony swallows, his eyes darting between Steve, the still comatose Howard, Bruce and Thor, who are both standing awkwardly a several feet behind Steve, "I'm okay, Tony. Are you-"

"I'm fine," Tony snaps sharply, his expression shuttering into a mask that is as unmoving as the Iron Man face-plate. He jerks his head to Howard's body, but doesn't look directly at it, "Is he, he's, alive, right?"

Steve nods, but the tension in Tony's voice palpable, which isn't surprising, since his father has just tripped at least twelve years into the future.

Tony blows out a deep breath, his expression flickering oddly.

"Let's get him back to the tower." he says finally, staring at the concrete ground intently, like it's the most interesting thing in the world.

Bruce frowns.

"We don't even know who it is, Tony," he states, crossing his arms, "He could be anyone- any _thing_."

Tony tenses visibly, half-way through calling the armour to him, and he stands frozen as it forms around him, settling into place. It's a beautiful sight, but a painful one as well. The way Tony, still only half suited-up, takes the mysterious box into his arms, the box that Steve only now realises has  _property of tony stark_ scrawled in wobbly handwriting down the side, a child's messy letters, makes Steve's heart clench. The way he stands stiffly, but it's like Tony is  _hiding,_ trying to run away to a place where no one can see him.

The armour rattles as it flies off the ground.

It is black and orange in this light, and it sends shivers up Steve's spine, because he can no longer see the beauty of the armour, the grace and heroism of it. Instead, all he can see is it's original purpose - to protect, to survive, the raw harshness of the contours that proclaim desolation and grief and the need to hide away, to conceal, to fight to live.

The faceplate comes on last, and the slightly distorted voice of Anthony Stark, the son of Howard Stark, rings out harshly in the alley, the words like knives. Icy fingers crawl up and down Steve's spine, Tony's choice of words making it all the harder to ignore that something is awfully, sickeningly, wrong.

"That is Howard Stark."

**Author's Note:**

>  _ ~~kudos and comments are like jaffa cakes, i need them to survive but i can't get them~~_  
>  feedback, kudos, and comments appreciated!  
> i exist on tumblr as heretherewillalwaysbedragons where you can contact me if need be :)


End file.
